Ghosts
by vivelakris
Summary: As much as the bohemians try to move on, ghosts from their past keep returning to bite them. Between hated siblings, awkward lovers, and the secrets just keep popping up, can the bohemians survive another year together? Please R&R!T for my dirty mouth
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer- NONE OF THIS BELONGS TO ME! Well, Ella, but no one else.**

**A/N- Hey! This is my first story here, so bear with me. Please, please, PLEASE R&R. Some of the chapters will be really really short, but I'll upload a couple at a time then. Please, I'm open to critique here, so, well, read! **

Roger was rather pleased to say that he was happy. He was living with Mimi, who was finally completely off smack. He had written his great song (though Mimi assured him that there were many more to come). He would be celebrating his twenty-fourth birthday in a few short days. There was absolutely nothing in the world that upset him.

He looked down at Mimi, who was asleep, lying across his lap, her dark hair strewn across her face. She looked to him like a beautiful, exhausted angel. He had the sudden urge to sing about his angel, his light, his song, his Mimi. But, looking down again, he realized that he didn't want to disturb her with the music or the sudden motion of having her pillow (otherwise known as his lap) stand up and walk away.

Roger leaned down and gently kissed her cheek, stroking it with the pad of his thumb and looking around their apartment. With Mimi's and his junk littered everywhere, it didn't look so bare _or _so sparse. Upcoming July promised that they wouldn't need heat for a good while yet. Mimi and he were usually both making money- between dancing and small-scale performances (birthday parties, mostly, he was ashamed to say), they weren't doing very badly. In fact, Roger realized with happy astonishment, they were doing pretty well.

Glancing down at his perfect, lovely angel again, Roger smiled a little, imagining lyrics in his head.

_My angel,_

_My love, _

_My light,_

_Oh, my angel, we're okay…_

They were corny and cheesy and really very bad, but Roger didn't mind. Lyrics didn't have to be as good as long as the only person who would ever hear them was the person they were about.

There were a few moments of peace, but they were soon interrupted by a knock at the door, which promptly woke Mimi up. She sat up, rubbing her eyes and glancing at Roger.

"H-how lonnng was I asleeeeep?" She asked, unable to suppress a yawn that had forced itself into the conversation.

Roger kissed her cheek. "Not too long. One sec, lemme see who's at the door."

Mimi nodded sleepily, glancing at the clock. It read sometime after eight at night, which meant that one automatically had to add two hours and seventeen minutes.

The knock came again, more urgently this time.

Roger squinted through the peephole, seeing Mark there. Automatically, he grinned, and then pulled a straight face. No need for Mark to think that he was whipped and soft just 'cuz he was in love.

_Oh wait,_ he realized. _I am. _

As he opened the door, Mark took a deep breath.

"Mark, what's wrong?" Roger asked quickly. His friend looked worried, pale, and distraught.

"Roger, you know how you hate your family?" Mark asked quietly.

Roger set his jaw in a tight line. "Hate is a strong word. It's hard for me to like my family."

"What if I were to tell you that… um.. your… _dad_ were to show up outside our apartment?" Mark asked quickly.

Roger frowned. "I'd say you lying, seeing as my dad has no clue where we live and I intend to keep it that way."

Mark nodded. "Okay, bad example. Suppose I were to tell you that… your _sister _was here? Standing outside our apartment?"

"I'd tell you to tell her to go fuck off and leave me alone," Roger said coolly.

"Roger, Ella's here, standing outside our apartment, with a backpack," Mark stated matter-of-factly, crossing his arms in a 'let's-pray-that-Roger-doesn't-try-to-shoot-the-messenger' kind of way.

"Shit! Tell her to go away!" Roger moaned. "Why isn't she still in Bumblefuck, New York?"

Mimi came up behind Roger suspiciously. "Who is Ella, Rog? Is this someone I should know about?"

"I had hoped not," Roger said seriously.

"She was at our door, asking where the hell you are," Mark muttered. "Probably still is, actually."

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" Roger practically shouted, advancing on Mark.

"Roger?" a quiet voice called from the hallway as footsteps clomped down the stairs and stopped outside of Mimi's apartment.

Roger squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that if he opened them, the short, blond-haired girl standing in the hallway would vanish.

Mimi eyed the girl annoyedly, though realizing with great satisfaction that this 'Ella' wasn't nearly as pretty as she. "Yes, Roger, _darling, _who is she?"

"Ella, why the hell are you here?" Roger asked, still not opening his eyes.

"I need someplace to stay where my roomie won't charge me my firstborn," the girl said softly. "I figured you could, I dunno, maybe, um…?"

"Back off, bitch," Mimi said coldly. "Roger's mine now. So take your little stalker-ass home."

"He hasn't told you about me?" the other girl said, surprised. "Um, Rog, I know that you don't like to talk about us, but I am kinda sharing your gene pool…"

"Mimi, Ella's not any kind of an ex-girlfriend. This would be my kid sister, come back to haunt me," Roger said, finally opening his eyes. "Which means that she needs to get the hell out of here before I tell daddy dearest where she is."

"He knows, dipshit," she hissed annoyedly. "Otherwise I'd be crawling at that doorstep instead. But seriously! I'm finished school! I just need someplace to stay for like, two weeks so that I can get the rest of my tuition to Fordham without it all being eaten up by housing issues."

"Ella, you can't fucking stay here. I have a life. Get your own," Roger said irritatedly. "I can't dig you out of all of your problems! Deal with your little issues on your own."

Mimi frowned at Roger. She didn't particularly like Roger's little sister quite yet, but still. Family _was _family, and her brothers and sisters had always been important to her. "Why can't we just find her someplace to stay?"

"Mimi! She's the most annoying little bitch you've ever seen!" Roger exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "It's no wonder Dad probably kicked her out!"

Ella glared. "Fine. I'll just be off, then, see if I can make it through a night alone here without being beaten, raped, murdered, or all of the above."

The girl began to stalk down the stairs. Mark, of course, rolled his eyes and immediately grabbed her arm, marching her back upstairs.

"Roger," he said curtly. "This is your sister, apparently. She can sleep on someone's couch. It's not exactly a great burden."

"She's the burden!" Roger protested. "I don't want her here!"

"Roger, really, seriously, I won't be a problem! I'll be working most of the time anyway, Roger! You never even have to see me! Please, just tonight, at least. Then I'll go back to Su-fricking-burbia and find some other way to go to college."

Roger advanced on her angrily. "Ella! Just _leave_, okay?"

Mark frowned. "Roger, cool it. She can stay on the couch in the loft for the night. I don't care and you can stay down here and pretend that she doesn't exist. She leaves in the morning, everyone wins, we all move on."

Ella smiled at Mark, but it looked more like a pained wince. She returned her cocoa-brown gaze to Roger. "Rog, please, I know you're still mad, but I'll do anything if you forgi-"

Roger turned his back to the blond girl appealing to him, shoving to the back of his mind his brotherly instincts. Throbbing with fury, he stormed out onto the fire escape, yanking his guitar along with him. He heard Mimi start to follow, but he furiously slammed the window shut, hoping that she took the hint that he wanted to be alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer- Doesn't belong to me!**

**A/N- R&R??**

Mark motioned to Ella to follow him.

"Um, Mimi," she said quietly, "I'm sorry to intrude, then. Bye."

Mimi nodded after a moment and Ella raced up the stairs after Mark, who had been watching her struggle from a few steps up the entire time.

"So," he said quietly, "long time, no see, El."

"Your fault for leaving me in fucking Scarsdale," Ella mumbled, swinging her backpack over one shoulder.

Mark laughed. "There was nothing left for me there, even less than nothing for Roger. If we stayed, we'd end up just like my father."

Ella pouted and Mark was proud to see a little of the stubborn mulishness and fierce defiance that he and Roger had encouraged before they left. "I was still there. Aren't I something to stay for?"

Mark rumpled Ella's hair affectionately. "Sorry, El. Roger wasn't exactly pleased with you at the time."

Ella frowned. "I'm sorry about that… That's why I came, really, I needed to apologize before he…"

Mark sighed. "It's okay, El. He's got time."

"Mark, he's never going to forgive me…" Ella murmured. "He's made that pretty clear."

They'd reached the top of the steps. Mark fumbled through his keys to find that corresponding to the locked door to his apartment.

"Thanks, by the way, for letting me stay the night," Ella said quietly. "I owe you one."

Mark shrugged. "I don't care. You're practically family."

Ella gently hugged him before they went in. "Thanks, Mark. That really means a lot to me, after Rog."

Mark abandoned chivalry, going in the doorway first. "This would be our lovely apartment, minus Roger's stuff, which is now permanently residing in Mimi's apartment, as is he, presumably."

He gestured around to the cold metal tables, the beat and worn couch, the tiny kitchenette.

Ella glanced around, and Mark noted immediately that she didn't bother to mask an appraising eye. She never had, but he'd never minded. For being a characteristic dreamer, she never masked her emotions. She didn't care what people thought.

_Except for her parents, _Mark thought darkly. _She always cared what they thought. _

"I knew," she whispered. "I knew that it could really screw things up… I was just so _scared_."

"It ended up okay," Mark told her, crossing to one of the cabinets. "Do you drink?" He removed a bottle of cheap alcohol and a pair of Styrofoam cups.

Ella rolled her eyes playfully. "I'm only nineteen," she reminded him, "however wise beyond my years I may seem."

"I don't recall asking you your age- do you drink?" he asked again.

Ella sighed. "Yes. Just a bit, please."

Mark carefully poured the cheap wine- Strawberry Paradise- into a Styrofoam cup and handed it to her. "It doesn't taste good. The only thing that's redeeming about it is that you can get drunk really quickly and easily."

Ella sat, cross-legged on the metal table in a way eerily reminiscent of her older brother, though she clutched an ugly, scratchy white Styrofoam cup, rather than a guitar, as her lifeline. She took a sip, glancing at Mark as she winced and swallowed. "I'd have to agree with you on that one."

He nodded, drinking from his own cup and sitting on the counter. "It's alright. I won't report you to the authorities or anything for underage drinking. You don't need to be in and out of rehab twice by the time that you're 21."

Ella frowned playfully. "I'd kill you before I let you report me."

"I have no doubt," he informed her, laughing. "Haven't you attempted double-homicide before?"

"You and Roger were sucky babysitters," Ella sighed dramatically. "When most seven-year-olds hear the word 'bedtime', when their mother isn't around, you might be surprised at the instincts that come into play."

"You came after me with a plastic knife," Mark noted, leaning back and stretching out his arm to chuck his cup in the trash. "Ha. Three points.."

"Damn straight, I came after y'all with a plastic knife," she purred, affecting a Georgian accent. "And I was all set to use it, too."

Mark raised his eyebrows. "You were a psychotic kid."

"Better than being that skinny little geek who had to be protected by his awesome rocker best friend so that he didn't get beat up in the parking lot," Ella crooned, getting up and sitting next to Mark. She poked his ribs and upper arms. "Oh wait- you still are that skinny little geek!"

Mark narrowed his eyes. "I'm not little… I've got like, two feet on you…"

Ella eyed him appraisingly. "You're seven-foot-two?"

"You're only five-two? You look taller," Mark laughed, patting her head and then his own as if to guess at how much taller he was.

She shrugged. "I'm wearing heels."

"Why?"

"So that I don't look like a midget," she said sweetly, returning to her seat on the table.

"That's politically incorrect. They're _vertically challenged individuals_, now. I found that one out while I was filming _Dwarves in Disaster_," Mark noted.

"Really?" Ella laughed and started to braid her hair. "Markypoo is still fiddling about wit his wittle cam-wa?"

"It's hardly wittl- um, it's hardly little, I mean," Mark whined. "It was expensive. It's good. Have you seen _Today 4 U _yet?"

"Nope," Ella said. "Is Roger in any bands right now?"

"He's starting a new one. I've heard them practice. They aren't half-bad," Mark admitted, slightly put-off that she only wanted to talk about her brother.

"That's nice. What does Mimi do?"

Mark laughed and quickly disguised it with a cough out of respect for Mimi, though she wasn't in the apartment to appreciate his generosity. "She's an… exotic dancer at the Cat Scratch Club."

Ella nodded. "That's cool. I bet she'd be really good at it. She's _so _pretty. Do you guys have any other friends?"

"Nah, we're social recluses who throw ourselves wholeheartedly into our work in the modest hope that it will eventually pay off and make us successful," Mark monotoned.

Ella raised her eyebrows.

Mark sighed. "We have many, many other friends, Ella. You don't need to worry about us."

Ella frowned, glancing out the window. "Do you know what time I'll be able to get out tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Mark said, grabbing the previous days' newspaper from a stack next to the microwave and tossing it to her.

She tore through it, scanning page D4 quickly and then shoving it to the other end of the table. "I'll be gone really early tomorrow, okay? Like, before you get up, if your sleeping habits are the same as they used to be."

Mark nodded. His sleeping habits were the same.

"So, I suppose this is goodbye," she said, running her fingers around the edge of her cup. "I can't stay any longer, and I can't exactly come back. I mean, it sucks, you know, but... Yeah."

Mark watched her for a minute. "Ella."

"Yeah?"

"You know how I fiddle with my camera?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind if I interviewed you? You know, for one of my movies?"

Ella raised her eyebrows. "What's so interesting about me?"

Mark shrugged. "Nothing. That's why I want to film you. You're real. You're normal."

"I have a feeling that there was a compliment and an insult both tucked in there," Ella giggled. "I hope it was mostly compliment."

Mark shrugged. "Whatever you want to think. You never answered the question…"

"Yeah, if you really want," Ella said, laughing still. "I guess that it's one of those things you can't refuse, right?"

Mark nodded, taking his glasses off to polish the lenses on his rugby shirt. "I'm glad that it's one of those things you can't refuse."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer- Nope, still doesn't belong to me, in case you were wondering.**

**A/N- And I still love R/R! In fact, coughcough they're my very favorite things...**

Mimi darkly glanced up the stairs, making sure that the girl was gone before she returned to the apartment that she shared with Roger. Mimi, having referred to herself as 'the feline of Avenue B' more than once before, could nearly always draw parallels between herself and a cat. For one thing, she was small, slinky, and flexible. For another, she was fiercely protective of those she loved.

It wasn't that she was threatened by or jealous of Ella. She didn't feel that way at _all. _Mimi simply _hated _the fact that Ella's very presence seemed to push Roger over the edge of insanity, the deep canyon that he'd been toeing the precipice of for so very long.

Mimi closed the door carefully behind her, listening to see if Roger was in the apartment.

He wasn't. He was still on the fire escape. She could _just _hear the twang of sad chords. She sighed, playing with a lock of her hair in exasperation and making her way over to the window, which was, (thankfully) unlocked. She stepped quickly into a pair of old rubber flip-flops, mainly so that she didn't get her newly-painted toes scented with the latest adorning their fire escape- _Eau de Bird Crap._

"Roger?" her voice quavered, forking its way through the hazy night. "Rog, please come to bed."

Mimi waited with baited breath, leaning against the windowsill. She saw his silhouette slowly put down its guitar.

"Oh, Meems," he said quietly, defeatedly.

"She's gone," Mimi noted. "She's leaving really early tomorrow morning, she said."

"Good," Roger sighed, coming inside at last and kissing Mimi gently on the cheek. "I don't feel like dealing with her right now, you know?"

Mimi nodded. "My siblings were bad. I understand, baby."

"But, it's like, I don't want to die hating her… I just can't talk to her right now," Roger mumbled frustratedly. "Meems, are you okay? You look a little pale…"

Mimi laughed gaily. "Roger, baby, I'm fine. I promise to tell you the next time I feel like I might have the slightest little twinge of a cold, you know that. C'mon, it's late. Let's go to bed, Rog."

Roger nodded and followed her to their small bedroom.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer- I own none of this, except for my OC :-D. **

**Please R&R, I live off of my revvies :-)**

Mark carefully adjusted the camera so that it focused on Ella. She'd turned so that she faced the window, the half-moon's light making her pale skin shimmer strangely, an odd, almost ethereal effect on an odd, more than ethereal girl.

"Ready?" he asked her curiously.

"I think so," she mumbled.

"Really?"

"I guess," she said quietly. "Are you gonna start the camera or not? I'm starting to think that _you're _the apprehensive one."

"There's nothing to be apprehensive about," Mark said, chuckling. "I just want to make sure that you're comfortable."

"I'm not," she said abruptly. "So get the fricking camera rolling before I go look for some plastic knives."

Mark shuddered. "Fine, then," he muttered quickly. He carefully flipped a few switches on the camera and turned the crank. "Rolling. Your name?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer- Nope, none of it belongs to me. I wish I could say that it does, but it doesn't :-D**

_A/N- This would be a 'transcript' of the first five minutes of the interview. Dialogue only, please revvie and tell me if you don't think that that works well :-D_

"You _know _my name, Marky."

"I know your name, but _they _don't know your name."

"Who is _they?_"

"Who _are _they, you mean?"

"Yeah, sure, who _are _they?"

"The viewers."

"Who's to say that anyone will be watching this predictable piece?"

"Me."

"Who listens to you?!?"

"You should. Your name, please?"

"Eleanor Mareth Davis."

"Ouch. Place of birth?"

"Same as you, dumbass."

"I repeat. I know where you were born. You know where you were born (hopefully). They do not know where you were born."

"Remind me who _they _are again?"

"The viewers."

"You honestly think people are going to want to watch this?"

"Damn straight, they're gonna want to watch this. Place of your fricking birth?"

"Scarsdale, PA. I repeat, same as you."

"Thanks. Parents?"

"Mother, Jen Davis, nee James. Father, Frank R. Davis."

"Lovely. Any siblings?"

"What do _you _think?"

"Haven't we been through this before? I know. They don't."

"I still don't think that anyone will be watching this. It sucks."

"Yeah, it sucks. Who cares?"

"I care. It's my first time starring in a movie ever and it sucks."

"Would you stop saying that? It doesn't suck that much. Name your brother."

"My brother?"

"Your brother."

"My brother?"

"No, your sister."

_Pause._

"Yes, your freaking brother!"

"I have no sisters."

"WHAT IS THE NAME OF ROGER!"

"Um…"

"!"

"Roger?"

"THANK YOU!"

"Can I take a break?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer- Not mine **

**A/N- Thanks, Tina101, for the reviews- they made me soooo excited! New readers, please read and review **

Mark sighed, turning the camera off. "Are you absolutely certain that you still want to do this?"

Ella looked aghast. "Of course, Marky! How else am I going to get my big break?"

He frowned. "Remind me to murder the person who came up with this idea."

"That would be you," Ella said lightly. "Want some more Strawberry Paradise?"

Mark shivered. "That stuff is disgusting. Are you an alcoholic as well as a—"

She frowned at him, stretching in a catlike way that reminded him of Mimi. "Don't finish that sentence. By the way, what am I supposed to be talking about now?"

"Well, that's up to you," Mark began. "I'm not really here to direct you. Think of it as me trying to capture everything about you… So sort of, sticking yourself all out there and hoping that I do this right," he tried to explain. Fortunately, Ella nodded, relieving him of the trouble of trying to explain.

"Do you want me to sort of explain my childhood and work my way up to today?" she suggested.

"Actually," Mark thought for a moment, considering. "Yeah. A few things about when you were real little- stories that explain the relationship that we all have, I guess. Then, if you wouldn't mind, detail on your thirteenth year…" he let the suggestion trail off, raising his eyebrows hopefully at her.

She started as though she'd been shocked. "Um, Mark, are you sure that people would want to hear about that? It's not really, um, how do you say-"

"It's life," Mark informed her abruptly, "and life is what I'm trying to film. And then, just something little about the years when Roger and I were gone and then we'll just.. go from there."

Ella stopped her playfully stretching and started slowly to twist a lock of hair around her index finger. "I dunno…" she said quietly.

"If you don't feel comfortable, I guess we can call this all off," Mark said slowly, glancing down at his camera. Ella stared out of the window.

"I want to do it," she mumbled after a minute. "Just show it to Roger after I leave, woulja? Maybe it'll help him understand."

"Will do," Mark chirped, forcibly cheerful. "Ready?"

"Yeah," she muttered, flipping her hair over her shoulder and meeting the camera with her jade eyes. "Yeah. Is it rollin'?"

"Yeah," he said. "So, childhood?"

"I was actually born in inner-city Trenton," she said quietly, staring down at her hands. She pulled a bottle of black nail polish out of her back and absently began to paint an ugly design on each one that might have been prettier had she a steady hand. "Not Scarsdale. But Mama, she had some luck in some business opportunity, she'd never say what it was, and so she decided to come to Scarrydale and bring us along with her. Baby me, kiddie Roger, bummie Daddy. I wasn't more than two when Mama died. I sort of would have liked to know who she was or even how she went, but I sort of also would rather just remember her the way I do. A beautiful golden-haired angel with green eyes, looking down on Rog and me from someplace where everything is made of spun silver and gold. I think sometimes that I remember her singing… That must be where Roger got his voice. Daddy once told me that she really did sing, that her voice was as clean and pure as could be."

Ella paused. Mark wanted to urge her on, but he knew from experience that the best material would come when the subject wasn't forced. Ella stared determinedly at the ceiling and then looked back at the eye of the camera.

"I can't sing. I sound like a duck that tries too hard. I gave up a few years ago and left the music to Roger," she deadpanned, smiling. "He makes the world a better place with his music."

"You really think so?" Mark asked quietly.

"Yeah, I do," she replied instantly.

"You really love Roger, don't you?" he asked slowly. Though he knew the answer, it was one of those things that he wanted to be documented.

She smiled sadly. "Do you remember the first time you and me and Roger met?"

Mark closed his eyes. Yes, he did vaguely remember an eleven-year-old boy dragging a five-year-old girl with longish blond pigtails creeping out beneath her sickly pink baseball cap by the hand up to his door and ringing the bell. Mark, who was watching them from the window, noticed that the boy jumped at the loud sound, that the girl tightened her grip on his palm. Mark had raced to answer the door.

"You were coming to borrow something, an egg or some other such…" he affirmed. "And my mother thought that he was awfully polite."

"I didn't say anything. I hid behind him," she muttered coldly. "I always have. Because, just like I trust you, I trust him. He's my brother. I love him."

"That's sweet," Mark mumbled. Something strange in him sort of wondered if she loved him like she loved Roger as well. He sort of…

No. Nevermind.

"When he was older, he always kept the boys away from me. 'Stay away from my sister.' 'She's off-limits.' 'She's a good girl- she's gonna be better than any of you motherfuckers.' I didn't mind. I'd heard of too many horrific rape stories and pregnancy stories to care. But when Dad got bad… I dunno. I got into some bad shit."

Mark winced. "Tell us about your dad."

"He was a bum. He had no job. He lived off of some kind of illegal empire from _his _father that wound down to him. By the time Roger was fourteen, he supported me more than Dad did. He protected me from him. He saved me from so much…"

"What did your father do?" Mark persisted, forgetting his ordinary interviewing rules. She wasn't some interviewee. She was Ella. Roger's Ella. His Ella.

"He hit Roger and me. Mostly Roger. He was a… confused father," Ella allowed.

Mark nodded. He'd heard the stories about Mr. Davis. He'd met the man a few times. It was not an experience that one usually wanted to repeat.

"Did he just hit?" Mark prompted. 

"No," she whispered, shuddering. "Once, he was holding a pot of boiling coffee while it was still brewing… he was angry with me and he threw it…" Ella pulled the neck of her shirt down to show her collarbone, swelling with strange and ugly scarring. "And, when I pulled the shirt off, about half the skin came off with it."

"How old were you?" Mark asked quietly.

"I was thirteen," Ella replied, staring down at her finished nails. "It was the day after.. the day after I…"

"You don't have to go on," Mark said quickly, "it's okay."

"Nah, Mark, I think that you need this part," she said after a moment. "I'm good. I got this."

She paused and then opened her mouth to continue.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer- Does not belong to me, none of it **

**A/N- Please, please leave reviews? Oh, and, of course, there's a ton of swearing in here. Just a warning. **

Ella closed her eyes. "I... Well, I guess you've gotta understand the sort of person I am. Mark, I dunno what you think of me, but I'm a coward, okay? I'm afraid of everything. Roger's gonna fucking die, and he goes through life with more bravery and determination than I do. I have a full life, a real life promised to me, and I can't do anything with it because I'm too fucked up…"

She trailed off for a moment. Mark knew that, if there was ever a time for him to interrupt her, it was this very second, but he also knew that she simply could not be stopped. Either she would go on or she would give up.

"I said before, I think, that Roger was real protective of me," she continued after a second. "'cuz he was. But the problem with Roger was that he wasn't nearly as protective of himself. By the time I was twelve or thirteen, he was doing all sort of drugs and shit with Tom. I knew that they did all the basics… Coke, pot, maybe some E here and there, I dunno for sure on anything. But the one thing that Roger did that Tom Collins didn't was… god, it's hard to say now. He was hooked on heroin from the time that he was like, sixteen on. When he was eighteen and I was thirteen, I found one of his needles and baggies and all that."

She stopped again, biting her lip and squeezing her eyes shut. Mark wanted to reach out, to touch her shoulder, to find some way to comfort her, but he couldn't. He suddenly did not want to have to be holding the camera to keep it perfectly trained upon her. He suddenly did not to even be filming this. It was like, like ripping a band-aid off of a cut before it was ready. Or maybe it was ready to be ripped off, but there was no way to know for sure. Or was there a way to know for sure that you were simply too stupid to see? It was confusing.

Ella glanced at him again, tears welling in her jade green eyes. She blinked them away quickly and Mark said nothing to her about them, though he wanted to.

He could still remember the last time he'd ever seen her. She'd been crying then, too. Roger, though he was angry with her, had still squinted away undeniable tears and Mark had had his face glued to his camera.

He also remembered one afternoon, when she must have been eleven or twelve, when the three of them had all been completely happy. It had been in the middle of the summer, some day when the Davis father was drunk off his ass and Ella and Roger found it ridiculously easy to sneak out of the house. They'd dragged Mark out of his room and to some park somewhere… It didn't even matter what it was called, which was fortunate, as Mark could not remember the name of the park at all. They'd drunk the sort of orange soda that tastes like bad orange toothpaste that has been carbonated, sugared, and bottled. They'd laughed. The Davises were tan. Mark looked like a vampire being exposed to the sun. They were happy. Roger's track marks were covered up by his shirt. Mark's eyes didn't look red. Ella looked like a strong, wiry angel.

Other guys Mark and Roger's age excluded their little sisters from their particular group of friends. Roger was the opposite. If Ella wanted to come somewhere with him and he didn't think it would be dangerous for her, he took her. When people said things to him, he would just shrug and tell them that if they wanted him around, they got her, too. People always wanted Roger Davis around.

Roger, Mark reflected, was the sort of person whose name would be capitalized even if it weren't a name and grammatically required to be capitalized. For instance, in some novels, when a person is talking about dust, they simply write the word 'dust'. But if it is magical dust that will somehow save the world from a terrible, awful, no-good, very bad plight, then it is often called 'Dust'. Even though someone would call just any ordinary Roger 'Roger' and not 'roger', if ordinary guys were simply called 'roger's, then Roger Davis would always be called 'Roger Davis'. Because, Mark decided, Roger and his sister were both the sort of people who needed capitalization.

Mark's thoughts were very, very cluttered.

Ella took a deep breath. "This one afternoon, after school, I was seriously upset… I kept remembering Roger's _stuff, _kept remembering the way he looked when he was high-"

Mark also remembered how Roger looked when we was high. When Roger was high, he had a soft, smiling look about him. He glazed over, dropped away all of the bad things in his life that he carried like a burden from _Pilgrim's Progress_.

Roger had once told him all of the things that being high did. He told him about how memories of things that you wanted to forget vanished. Mark, being the nosy teenager that he'd been at the time, was curious. He asked Roger exactly what memories vanished. Roger gave him a capital-lettered Look.

"I… I did all of the stuff and I shot up…" she whispered. "I was fucking thirteen. Thirteen. One-three."

Mark said nothing. He had seen the first time that she'd shot up. She had been sitting, cross-legged on the floor in the center of Roger's room, Roger's shoebox of heroin supplies- his needles, his stashes, the bandana, the candle, etc- open on the floor before her. The old bandana was firmly tied around her upper arm.

Mark had just been looking for Roger. He had finally tracked down their old friend, Tom Collins, who had a loft in New York and said that they could move in if they wanted to split with the rent. Instead, he walked in on his best friend's sister while she shot up at the age of thirteen.

Ella's eyes had been lightly closed and her face and jaw relaxed. Even if Mark hadn't seen the expression on Roger dozens upon dozens of times before, he would have known exactly what was happening. A thirteen-year-old girl had just shot up.

If Mark was the mature, responsible person that he always professed to being, he might have gone to Mr. Davis and said something. But, suddenly, he remembered the bruises up and down Roger and Ella's bodies. He held his tongue.

Ella went on. "I was addicted. So fucking addicted. One day, my dad went through my stuff. He found my stash. He started yelling and screaming… He was crazy… I was so afraid, Mark. So afraid…"

Her shoulders shook violently with rough, dry and silent sobs.

"Roger was standing right there," she mumbled, no longer looking directly at the camera. "Sort of dumbfounded. Dad just kept screaming and hitting and blood and noise and fear… Suddenly, I just screamed out, 'Roger! It's Roger's!'"

Mark took a deep breath.

"And… And Dad went on to Roger's room and it didn't take him long to find Roger's stash.. We both had to get drug tests… We both had heroin in our systems. I told on my fucking brother… He always tried to protect me, he was so good to me, and I tried to blame it on him. If it weren't for me, Dad never would have gone on to Roger's room. I had to go to rehab. Roger left. The end."

Tears began to spill from Ella's eyes, her face a sickly white. "Mark, can we please stop the tape rolling now? Please?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer- Completely not mine, dahlins.**

**A/N- You know the drill- I beg for reviews and very few people give them. Oh, well. Such is life, I suppose. Thanks to notEASYbeingGREEN and Tina101 for their reviews… And I lied. This is not my favorite chapter. I hate this chapter…**

Mark wanted to hold Ella tightly in his arms. He wanted to shield her, protect her, save her from her mistakes. He wanted to stroke her hair and make the rough sobs that wracked her sickly-thin body magically vanish. But he couldn't, for some reason. All Mark could do was numbly turn off the camera.

Of course, he had heard the story before. Roger had told it to him in angry, agitated bursts on the drive to Manhattan. Roger's side of the story boiled with ferocity and

hurt, mixed with a bitter bite of betrayal.

Mark regarded Ella. She seemed to have folded in on herself, sitting on the cold metal table. Her knees were drawn to her chest tightly as white-rimmed knuckles clutched them impossibly close. The chunky mood rings that adorned said knuckles were shades of black and white, bronze shimmering through a little. Ella's straight, dark gold hair that, Mark realized, was rapidly turning light brown, just as Roger's was, was strewn unceremoniously and rather limply over her shaking shoulders.

Mark guessed that this, this molten heap of girl, this was the way Ella had been that summer day. Maybe a bit shorter, though he doubted that she'd grown an inch since she was thirteen, or maybe a little less addicted, but this was the way Ella had been. Melting and dying.

Quickly drying her eyes, she looked up at him. The red that now lined her eyes complimented the green of her irises in a melancholy Christmas waltz. She bit her lip. "I can keep going, Mark. I'm not a child, you know."

Yes, you are, he said to her silently in his mind. The difference between me and you is the very same as the difference between you and Roger. Though you want to grow up and want to be mature so very much, you still can't. You're still broken children.

"Since that day, I hadn't seen Roger at all until this evening. He still hates me. I don't blame him. I hate me, too. Since I was thirteen, I've spoken to Mark twice, not counting this evening. He called me two years ago, to tell me that Roger's girlfriend committed suicide and that he was withdrawing from heroin, and a year ago, to tell me that Roger was finally in another serious relationship. Both conversations were short and awkward, both participants rushing away quickly to avoid stating the obvious- that, though Mark was essentially a brother to me a few years ago, we might as well have disowned each other. The relationship, the connection that we had had, it was lost," Ella said, flatly, emotionlessly.

"Yeah," Mark affirmed lamely.

"When you, I mean, um, Mark called me two years ago, I made a stupid promise to myself. And listen, because even I am saying that it is stupid. I swore that I'd find a way to go to college. I just made it last year, thank god, but I don't have enough to afford my books. I'm not exactly sure how much I'll need, but I know that I need more than what I've got," she laughed coldly, "which is nothing."

Mark nodded. He hadn't bothered to go to college. Even though his parents had seemed to think that it was a perfectly lovely idea, he hadn't exactly gone for it. He wasn't much of a college person, truthfully. Roger hadn't been either, thank goodness, So they had gone to New York, for no apparent reason except to leave their families behind at last. Mark's parents had disapproved. Roger's father hadn't cared. It wasn't much of a farewell.

"Mark," she said quietly. She was no longer addressing the camera. She was speaking purely to him. "Mark?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, half-adding a question mark at the end to make it a question and half-leaving it as a normal sentence to make it an affirmation.

"Do you wanna just call it quits?" Ella asked quietly. "I have a feeling… I have a feeling that the only thing that you wanted out of that interview was the part about Roger and me. That's cool, but if you just want to go to bed or something…"

Ella gestured to the clock. "It's late," she finished lamely.

Mark shrugged. "I guess, if you're tired, you're probably right… If you gimme a sec, I'll make up the bed with fresh sheets for you."

"Don't bother," she said quickly. "I can take the couch. That way, I can get out easy in the morning without waking you up."

"Are you really leaving really early?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," she mumbled. "I am. So, I guess, seeing as I'm never going to be able to come back here and seeing as we're probably just going to lose it again…This is goodbye."

"Yeah," he muttered back awkwardly. "Good night. Good bye."

Mark turned away and went to his bedroom. Flopping on the bed on his back, he stared up at the ceiling. It was sort of obvious that he and Ella weren't ever going to see eachother again.

Mark swore.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer- I don't own RENT, sadly enough. **

**Author's Note- I have given up begging for reviews. **

Mark rather found that he hated himself.

He was, quite possibly, the stupidest person in the universe. It was not only that a beautiful, sweet girl sleeping just outside of his room, just outside of that locked door. Oh, no, it was much worse than that. Offenses like that could be forgiven.

The reason why Mark was, at that time, so despicable, was much less rudimentary than the fact that there was a beautiful, sweet girl in his apartment who he was not even within a meter of. The reason why Mark was so despicable was actually because he felt incredibly guilty.

First, Ella was probably still upset. He could be actually consoling her, but he was, as always, too much of a wimp to do anything but pull his duvet over his head and wonder if it is possible to squeeze ones' eyes tightly shut, concentrate very hard, and die.

He found that it was not, in fact, possible to do so.

_She's Roger's sister, remember? No one special to you, _he tried desperately to remind himself. Not his girlfriend. Not his lover. Not his crush. Roger's sister.

But, unfortunately, Mark knew somewhere very deep down inside him that he had always, always loved Ella. Maybe, once he had loved her like a brother. But those days were over, completely and utterly over. He loved her in the most romantic, drastic, intimate, here's-my-heart-and-soul-please-grind-them-into-a-hamburger-and-enjoy sort of way.

And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

Ella rather found that she hated herself.

She was, quite possibly, the stupidest person in the universe.

Not only had she just completely broken down in front of Mark Cohen, a guy whose name had held a special meaning for her since she was ten and first realized that she actually liked guys when they didn't have cooties, but she was also sleeping on his couch.

Mark Cohen had never had cooties.

And she wasn't really sleeping.

Ella had found it rather difficult to sleep since she was little. She didn't like the dark. She preferred sleeping with all of the lights on and clutching a worn stuffed rabbit like a life raft in the midst of a stormy sea littered with wreckage and constantly threatening to pull her underneath.

Finally, not only was she sleeping on Mark Cohen's couch, but she had also just spent three hours talking to him seriously and earnestly without once admitting that she, Ella Davis, had very, very, _very _strong feelings for him.

She wanted to admit that she loved him. She really, really did. But how was she supposed to tell _him _that, huh?

Ella frowned. You don't just walk up to the guy who you've secretly loved for nine years and go, "Howdy! I think I love you! Well, no, I don't really think I love you- after all, I mean, I've been rather sure of it since I was ten and you started permanently sticking that damn camera to your face- maybe I thought it was a turn-on even then. But yeah, I'm like, crazy in love with you. Oh, and by the way, do you know the time?"

She bit her lip and sort of wished that she'd brought Bunny, her extra-creatively-named stuffed rabbit. Bunny was always open for hugs, always ready to listen, and never ever told a soul.

Ella sadly reflected that Bunny had shared her bed more often than any boy.

Mark stared at the door. There it was, seemingly the only barrier between him and the sleeping blond in the other room. Seemingly, of course. Truthfully, there were many other barriers forcing Mark away from Ella.

For one, there was the entire issue with Roger. Roger hated Ella. Mark loved Ella romantically. Roger liked Mark platonically. Mark liked Roger platonically. If Mark admitted his romantic love for Ella, his platonic like with Roger was screwed.

He didn't want that. Obviously, there was no way to get both of the Davises. Which one was more important to him?

Some people would say Ella. Surely, they might say, a fellow like Mark would love to dote upon Ella.

Others might say Roger. Mark had helped Roger through seven months of withdrawal. He'd been pummeled, screamed at, sworn at, and still, after the end of Roger's withdrawal, Mark was still around, doing his best-friendly-duties.

Another barrier that was keeping Mark away from the door and thus, keeping him away from Ella, was his inability to forget her story. He couldn't keep it out of his head, couldn't stop imagining the scene in his mind.

The following day, the last time that Mark had seen Ella, she and Roger's faces were both graced with a few new bruises. Both were pale and a little fumbling, probably because they had not been able to slip away to shoot up during the night.

Mark knew that the Davis father (it had always felt too strange on his tongue) had hit his children. He knew that the man never really cared about them and never really considered them _his _children. But he still hated him furiously in a way that Ella always chided him for.

"Don't hate," she always clucked, batting him in the shoulder (which she could barely reach). "Make changes."

Ella stared at the door. There it was, seemingly the only barrier between her and the inescapable, indescribable Mark Cohen. Seemingly, of course. Truthfully, there were many other barriers between she and Mark.

It was sort of nice to think that the only thing separating the two was a narrow slab of wood. To think that, theoretically, she could just push open the door, walk up to him, and envelope herself in his arms and drown herself in his boyish, aftershave-and-black-tea scent, reach her face up to his thin lips to catch them in a soft kiss-

But, she simply couldn't.

There were a multitude of reasons.

First off, though Ella's life had been rather stuffed with a menagerie of boyfriends, the relationships were much more focused on the physical side, rather than actual emotional intimacy. She preferred it that way. Suddenly faced with the prospect of real romantic love, she fretted ceaselessly. What to do? What to say? Where had all of her relationship-savvy confidence gone?

When you had a relationship focused on kissing and touching, one simply went on autopilot. You could enjoy brief pleasures and think about people you would rather be with. And, of course, Ella's persona of preference was her brother's best friend. Mark Cohen. Skinny, blond, Jewish Mark Cohen. Why did she like him, anyway? He was nothing at all like her.

But still… The perfect steely-blue eyes-!

She'd always loved the way Mark seemed to be indignant on the behalf of she and her brother. She'd loved the way he was angry with her father, the way he wanted to fight the power (as though her father had actual power). She'd loved everything about him. She'd loved… him.

She loved him.

Ella stared at the door.

Mark stared at the door.

There would be no sleep that night.


	10. A General Notice

**A General Notice-**

**Okay. I've really, really, asked for reviews. I have two loyal reviewers. I don't care if you love it or hate it, I really, really want reviews!**

**So here is the deal. If people **_**do not start reviewing**_**, Ella and Mark will profess their love for one another and then fall off of the fire escape. Seriously! I don't particularly care for this story anymore and it will not bother me at ALL to throw the duo off the side of a building. **

**Please, please review, okay? **

**And yes, this does count as blackmail. **

**Thanks, dearies-**

**K**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer- I do not own RENT, unfortunately. RENT belongs to poor, dear Jonathan Larson. **

**Author's Note- Sorry, chickies. I couldn't resist :- **

Ella's watch beeped, a tinny and annoying sound. It did not, unfortunately, wake her up. This was not due to the fact that she was a heavy sleeper. She was, as a matter of fact, a very light sleeper. Ella's watch did not wake her up the morning that she slept in the Loft with Mark (though, sadly, she did not sleep _with _Mark) because, quite frankly, she was already awake.

Though she guessed that, at one point or another during the night, she might have slept for an hour or two, every tiny drip! and drop! in the Loft seemed to wake her up. So, the tinny and irritating beep! of her watch (though incredibly annoying) did absolutely nothing to help her.

Carefully, she got up off of the old couch, folding the blanket that Mark had given her back up and placing the pillow on top of it. Glancing around the Loft to see if she had left anything behind (and forgetting that she had brought very little to leave, as a matter of fact), her eyes fell on the door to Mark's room.

She tiptoed over, wishing that her shoes didn't make such horribly loud noises against the unidentified surface of the Loft's floor. Pushing the door open a tiny crack, she peered inside, twisting a lock of hair nervously between two fingers.

Mark was sleeping on his stomach, his pale (but strangely… muscular?) arms thrown haphazardly over his head as though to fend off the restrictions, rules, and other such evils of the world. His head was tilted so that she could just see the curve of his perfect lips, twisted into something between a frown and a smirk.

_I love you, _she mouthed to the sleeping figure. _I really, really love you. _

Why couldn't she have said that the night before, when she was spilling all of her deepest, darkest secrets? Why couldn't she have said that when the words, those awful, awful words, were tumbling off of her tongue as easily as she was reading from a script? Addiction, heroin, crying, hurt, hurt, hate, Daddy, Roger, hate, hate, hate. Ugly words.

Love.

Love was a worn-out old word. It was overdone. It was cliché. And yet, it was so perfect, especially for what she felt for Mark. She knew that she was only nineteen. She knew that Mark was too old for her and that maybe she was really too young to understand true love. But… still…

Sighing, she left Mark's door, glancing out the window. The sun was just rising over the horizon of the city. It was a beautiful, glorious sight, and Ella realized suddenly that she didn't want to leave New York. It was sad, of course, but, well, how could she stay? Roger hated her. And, well, even if she loved Mark and New York, it would just be _too _uncomfortable to stick around.

She slid the door to the fire escape open, stumbling a little as her heels caught the edges of the grating. Smiling as she felt the first rays of the sun catch her face and warm her tired eyes, she stretched, not wanting the moment to end. She didn't have long until she would have to be on a train, leaving New York, Mark, and Roger forever… but, for that moment, she had almost everything she needed.

br 

Mark hadn't slept all night, so the tinny beeping of Ella's wristwatch alarm didn't wake him up, either. He heard every soft click of her shoes as she made an attempt at being quiet and stealthy and smiled every time he heard the soft, almost musical yawn. Though he couldn't see her, he heard her look in his room and, self-consciously, kept his back to the door.

He even heard her slide open the door to the fire escape. She was really leaving.

The thought filled him completely with a strange sort of emptiness. It was not, truly, the emptiness itself that was strange but rather, the alien feeling of being with _filled _with emptiness. It seemed impossible, but it was really incredibly true.

After a moment, ignoring the early-morning chill (wasn't it supposed to be summer, anyway?), he got out of bed and tugged a sweater over his head, leaving his bedroom and sliding open the door to the fire escape.

"Hey," he said, smiling at Ella.

She looked at him, her eyes sparkling with tears, though she smiled still, strangely. "Hey, Mark."

"When are you leaving?" he asked softly, standing next to her and propping his elbows up on the rail of the fire escape, just as she did.

"Too soon," Ella murmured.

Mark sighed, peering sideways at her. "Ella… are you dating anyone right now?"

"Of course not. They're assholes," she replied tonelessly, not looking at him at all.

"Who are assholes?" Mark asked curiously.

"Boys," she deadpanned.

"Am I an asshole?"

"Are you a boy?"

Mark gaped at her. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," she returned, laughing.

"Yes, you're serious, or yes, I'm an asshole?"

"Both!" she exclaimed. "Why all the questions?"

He swatted at her playfully, she darting away from his hand.

"You're the asshole!" he exclaimed, reaching out as though to tickle her. As she laughed and skipped backwards, the heel of her shoe got caught in the grille of the fire escape and toppled backwards, crying out.

Mark froze in shock as Ella rolled down the steps, finally grasping tightly to the side rail to stop her fall. He ran down the steps after her, kneeling down to hold her tightly. "Are you okay?!?"

She gasped for breath, seemingly terrified. "You… asshole!"

He smiled, laughing and cradling her gently. Why did this feel so… right? She smiled at him once she'd relaxed a little more. "Mark?" she asked quietly.

He leaned down and, still smiling, kissed her.


End file.
